


recovery; after the storm

by liminal



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminal/pseuds/liminal
Summary: Where he goes, I go, Julia had once said. Now he knows absolutely that there is no line they will not cross for each other.William and Julia recover.Post 'Cometh the Archer'





	

**Author's Note:**

> "We stood tall  
> And remembered our own land,  
> What we lived for."
> 
> (Mumford & Sons, 'After the Storm')

They ride non-stop back to the city together, the silence punctuated by Julia’s occasional moans as the bumpy road tears her stitches further, and her shirt turns more red than white. William holds her tight, whispers soft adulations in her ear, promises her that she’ll be okay and that he’ll never leave her.

 _Where he goes, I go_ , Julia had once said. He knows now absolutely that there is no line they will not cross for each other.

Images of the last few days flash through his mind: Julia dying on the floor, lying in the hospital, Eva promising to be everything that he wanted her to be. _Not that,_ he’d said, _not with you_ and God knew how much he’d meant it. He means it so much more now, as Julia mutters his name in her sleep and her golden hair tumbles across him. 

Everything that he wanted… well, hands that had been quick to make the sign of the cross at the deaths of society's worst had been slow to bless Eva Pearce. William Murdoch, who can count on one hand the number of times he’s struck someone, takes some unholy comfort in the knowledge of Eva’s death, and the heaviness of his wife in his arms is enough for him to feel absolved of any sin.

 _I love you_ , he’d told Julia in the hospital and the brain activity monitor he’d invented out of desperation had lit up in response. “I love you,” he tells her now, over and over again as Toronto draws nearer. Every sleepy smile that his words elicit is like a prayer being answered.

*

It’s not until they get back to the city and William has carried his shallow-breathing wife into a hospital room that he notices what she’s wearing.

“Are those my trousers, Julia,” he asks mid-way through undressing her, more amused than shocked because this fearless woman never ceases to amaze him. He’s undressed his wife a hundred times before, wrapping ties and laces around his wrists to hold her close, but his hands are strangely bereft of things to do now that Julia stands in front of him in nothing more than a corset and trousers from his own wardrobe.

“I wasn’t going to come after you in a skirt and bodice,” Julia mutters, and William grins, propriety be damned. 

“Well, the Inspector always said you wore the trousers, not I,” he whispers, taking more satisfaction in removing the offending article than he perhaps should in the circumstances.

*

Julia wakes up slowly as the mid-afternoon light filters through the window behind her, vaguely aware of a dull ache in one arm and a warm weight pressing down on her: William’s hand, entwined with hers from the neighbouring bed where he lies asleep, a thick bandage wrapped around his upper arm and far too still for her liking. 

“William,” she whispers, her world suddenly narrowing to nothing more than the man next to her. “William, wake up! William!”

Her voice rises, concern colouring her tone, and her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Not now, not after all they’ve been through. Not him.

Doctor Maharris rushes into the room, a nurse in starched white behind him, and Julia shakes off the hands that try to calm her, to settle her back into bed.

“What’s wrong with him,” she demands, because William’s still not moving. He’s a light sleeper, prone to snoring softly or shifting in his sleep in order to be closer to her, but right now he looks more like a specimen on her morgue table than the man who stands tall in the station house and kisses her in dark alleyways.

“The detective will be fine, Doctor Ogden,” Maharris says. “He’s simply lost a lot of blood and is sleeping it off. I tried to send him home but he refused to leave you. Which, in view of your running away last time you were here, I was inclined to think was a sensible idea.”

The doctor reads the anxiety in Julia's eyes. “You needed another transfusion,” he says softly, “and we took the blood from your husband. He insisted upon it, though I did tell him that it would likely take a greater toll on him than the last time, what with the condition he was in. But he insisted all the same. He’s a stubborn man, but he likely saved your life twice.”

“Of course he did,” Julia smiles as William, thank God, starts to wriggle a little under the covers. “Doctor, would you help me push the beds together please.”

The doctor hesitates and Julia fixes him with a look. “Please don't assume that I'm any less stubborn than my husband is.”

*

George and the Inspector stop by in the evening, George’s arms laden with toiletries and fresh clothes that Miss James helped him collect, and they walk in to find the beds pushed together and the Murdochs sleeping side by side, the doctor’s head on her husband’s chest.

“It’s unorthodox, we wouldn’t usually allow them to share a room,” Doctor Maharris says when he sees them loitering in the doorway.

The Inspector scoffs, but the relief is clear to see in his face. “What isn’t unorthodox about those two. Don’t tell them we stopped by, we’ll come back tomorrow.”

*

Physical wounds heal faster than mental ones. William is discharged after a couple of days, with strict instructions from Doctor Maharris not to exert himself and from the Inspector not to return to work for at least a week. George tells him quietly one morning that Miss James conducted Eva Pearce’s post mortem and her findings were in accordance with the claim of Julia’s self-defence, that the city paid for the funeral and no more questions have been asked.

“It’s over, sir,” he says in a low voice and William’s words stick in his throat, but George knows that the clap on his shoulder is a heartfelt thank-you.

Even still, William can’t bring himself to go to Mass just yet. Not now, while Julia needs him by her side, he reasons. Not now, while the bruises around his wrists morph through a kaleidoscope of colours and are sore to the touch even after they begin to fade. Not now, while he still wakes up in a cold sweat and the nightmares linger even at daybreak. Dark haired, dark eyed women give him pause for thought, and every song that children sing sounds like ‘Henry Lee’.

Eventually, though, God catches up with him, and Father Clements stands watching William sit by his wife’s bedside for a long time before the detective realises he’s there.

“You haven’t been to church in a while, William,” the Father says as they walk down the hospital corridors, and William grimaces.

“No, Father, I- I haven’t wanted to leave my wife,” he offers and the white lie hangs in the air between them. 

“We all experience crises of faith at some time, William. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a mark of the depth of your devotion, of how strongly you have been tested.”

William’s surprise at Father Clements’ response leaves him speechless. The Father isn’t wrong, per se, but the crisis William is going through goes so much deeper than just his faith, and he doubts whether he could articulate it. Words, for once, are failing him.

“It’s not so much that, Father,” he tries, feeling the burden of trying to be a good man and a good husband and a good Catholic sitting more heavily on his shoulders than ever before. “I understand that God tests us, I just- this just seems too far, too much after everything Julia and I have been through. And how can I ask for God’s forgiveness when… When I can’t forgive myself for what’s happened… When a constable died in my place… I’m not sorry that Eva Pearce is dead.”

Father Clements stops walking and lays a hand on William’s shoulder. “It’s not for us to question God,” he says quietly, “or His actions. He has a plan for us that none of us can know before our time. And nor is it for us to decide the issue of forgiveness. But ask yourself if hatred is something you want to carry with you for the rest of your life. Come back to church when you’re ready, William. You’ll know when that is.”

The Father walks off and leaves William standing alone in the corridor, Julia calling out for him three rooms away. The sense of unease sits as heavily in his stomach as it did before.

Later that day, he steals away from the hospital during one of Julia’s afternoon naps and feels sicker with every step he takes towards Constable Worseley’s residence. The Constable’s mother opens the door and bursts into tears before William can finish identifying himself. He feels – not for the first time – the disadvantages of having his reputation precede him.

“I couldn’t be prouder,” Mrs Worseley tries to tell him, “of having a son who died for loyalty.” William tells her of her son’s great aptitude, his reliability, the friendly face that he was around Station House no. 4, and in time the genuine words that nevertheless sound hollow to his own ears staunch the flow of tears. He promises absolutely to attend the funeral, makes a silent vow to see to it personally that Worseley’s pension is enough to provide for his mother, and in time the day seems an little brighter.

“I hope you won’t think me impertinent, Detective,” Mrs Worseley says as she walks him to the door, “but please, don’t regret any of it. Go back to your wife and live for the future. It’s what Eddie would have wanted.”

*

Nothing is straightforward in Julia’s case. She needs more stitches than she did the last time, and incapacitation renders her irritable and fearful. It’s manageable when William stays with her and reads passages from the newspapers or scientific journals aloud, or when they sit together on the bed and talk about their future home and family, their fingers intertwined and William’s kisses lingering on her forehead. But when he’s chivvied out for the night by a stony-faced nurse, despite their protestations and William’s thinly veiled threat to find some work-related excuse to remain posted in the hospital all night, the nightmares return. 

They’re never quite the same, just variations on a horrible theme. Opening the apartment door to find Eva/ Leslie/ Gillies bearing down on her, waking up in the hospital to see blood gushing from her stomach and nothing to stem the flow, to see William leaving the room before she can call out to him to stop and stay with her. Riding through the snow-covered woods but the cabin never draws any closer, stalking Eva through the trees but her arrow won’t notch and when it does, Eva escapes unharmed. Peering through the little window to see William and Eva huddled together, two brown heads gazing down at a third, humming gentle songs to the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. The family she can’t give him. 

Come morning, her bedsheets are soaked through with sweat and her hair is plastered to her face. Nurses in the hallway don’t trouble to lower their voices when they talk about the amount of extra laundry that’s coming from Room 24. Usually she has time to tidy herself up before William comes with warm pastries and a smile that always looks somewhat apologetic, and she’s able to greet him with a cheerful “good morning” that doesn’t quite hide the hell she’s battling. 

But one day William arrives early and the nightmare won’t release her, and she doesn’t recognise the voice calling out as her own until it’s too late. He’s mopping her brow with a cold towel, looking more afraid than she’s ever seen him look, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them: “William, please, don’t leave me. I’m sorry… don’t leave me.”

Gentle hands gather her close and stroke her back in calming circles. “Never, Julia,” William whispers, “never. Where you go, I go.”

That afternoon, William issues an ultimatum: either Julia is released from hospital or he stays there with her. Doctor Maharris tuts and rants about breaches of professional ethics, but he needs no further reminder of the strength of the detective’s feelings for his wife. 

That evening, the Murdochs return to the Windsor House Hotel.

*

The staff offer every possible assistance as the detective and the doctor navigate the lobby and the hotel stairs, wishing them well and informing them of stringent new rules being applied to anyone who serves the Murdoch suite. They even forgive the lack of a tip from the usually generous patrons.

Crossing the threshold is difficult for them both. Julia stares wordlessly at the wooden floor, swearing that can see flecks of her own blood forever marked on the grain, and noises ring through William’s ears: three gunshots, his own cries and Julia’s weak breathing. ‘Henry Lee’ on repeat over and over again. 

But they won’t gain anything from living in the past and, in circumstances laughably different from the first time he did so, William swoops Julia up into his arms, ignoring her cry of surprise and mindful of her wound, and carries his wife across the threshold.

*

“What’s on your mind,” Julia asks one night, her head on William’s chest and her last few questions unanswered. “William, tell me.”

A week of bedrest and room service might not have been what Doctor Maharris explicitly ordered, but it’s done them both the world of good. The sparkle is back in Julia’s eyes and their nightmares more infrequent, but William wonders if the most powerful thing has been reaching out to find a gentle hand when the darkness threatens to overwhelm them, the litany of ‘I love you’s that have rained from each other’s lips in those weaker moments. Some small part of him feels guilty about taking so much time off from work, but the Inspector had all but barked at him to leave the Station House the first time he tried to go back, and George reassured him that Miss James was perfectly capable of handling morgue duties.

“In fact, sir,” he’d said cheekily, “we haven’t had any murders since you’ve been off. Perhaps you ought to stay home a little more frequently.” William had left it to the Inspector to rap George on the head.

Julia rises on one elbow to look at him properly and the movement seems to jolt William back to attention. “I’m sorry, Julia. I was just thinking… What would you say if I left the police,” he says, the words coming out slowly and his eyes refusing to meet hers.

“Where’s this come from?”

“None of this would have happened if not for my work. Everything with James Gillies… Eva Pearce… I can’t let my work and the people I deal with put you in danger. There’s nothing in the world that I care about as much as you.”

Julia raises an unimpressed eyebrow, a sure sign of her getting somewhat back to normal. “And what would you do with your time instead? Write a book and give George a run for his money? Paint, like the Inspector?”

William fixes his wife with a look. “Don’t be facetious, Julia,” he says, smiling all the same. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d find something to do, another job or I could work on my inventions-”

“While I’m sure, William, that you could give Mr Pendrick a run for his money, the man is utterly reliant on you for getting him out of trouble. I won’t have you getting into the same scrapes, unless I’m there too. And much as I love you and staying in bed all day, I have no intention of giving up my work.”

“Julia, I-”

“No,” Julia interrupts her husband with a kiss, then pulls back to look at him. “William Murdoch, you are a detective through and through, and I won’t have you give that up for me. You’re going to go back to the station house and I’m going back to the morgue, and we deal with whatever happens together.”

William smiles. “I love you,” he says, leaning in to kiss his wife and all thoughts of Doctor Maharris’ warning about not putting pressure on Julia’s wound fly from his mind as his hands slip to Julia’s waist, hers thread through his hair, and they fall back onto the pillows as one.


End file.
